Revelation (6 page)

I twist the button at the top of my cardigan, fingers clenching the sleeve. "I am."

"They'll be out in a moment," she says. "He's with Pastor Bryan."

I assume she's referring to Carter, so I nod.

"I'm Mrs. Bryan," she explains. "One of your witnesses." She winks, a mischievous grin lighting her features, as if we're both in on some kind of secret. In a way we are, I guess.

"Oh. Well, thank you for doing this for us. I know it was kind of last minute."

"Nonsense. I'm pleased to be part of your special day. I wish I could say the same of my sister. She hates to be out after dark. Nights like tonight, especially." Her voice lowers to an almost-whisper, eyes glinting. "She's something of a cynic."

I stifle a bitter laugh at the thought. "We'd get along perfectly."

"My dear, there is no room for cynicism on your wedding day."

Wedding day.
Waves of panic rip through my body, this knowledge weighing heavy in my stomach. And the dizzy afterthought:

This is my wedding day.

To the outside world—I'm getting
married
. Promising to love someone forever. Signing a legal and binding contract. Only . . . I'm
not
. I swallow back the part of me that wants to confess everything. That this entire thing is a scam. That I'm not even in love with . . . that I don't love Carter like that. That the only person I'd ever want standing with me at an altar is an angel fallen because of me. Instead, I say the only thing I can articulate coherently: "It's raining."

"It rained on our wedding day, and wouldn't you know it's brought us fifty-four wonderful years together."

This isn't helping.

"Fifty-four years. Wow. That's like . . . forever."

She laughs. "It feels like it, sometimes. Other times like barely a breath."

"So . . . what's the secret?" I ask, voice
trembly
.

"Patience. Understanding. Forgiveness. The willingness to grow together. Roger made it easy for me, though. It's not hard to love your best friend."

My heart fumbles a beat, skittering at the realization: "Carter's my best friend."

"Best friends make the best husbands," she says. "My mother told me that."

"How did you know for sure, though, that he was the one?" I ask. "Mr.—Pastor Bryan, I mean."

"I knew he was the one the day I realized I didn't want to wake up without him." She smiles at me, eyes shining. "It's a cliché, really, but it was wartime. He was about to go overseas." 

I wait for the earth to move, to shiver beneath my feet, to shatter where I stand and swallow me whole. For stepping inside this church. For pretending. For promising to love someone for the rest of my life when we both know it's a lie. For betraying Seth. For betraying myself.

"But enough about this old woman," she continues. "What are your '
somethings
'?"

"My
somethings
?" I ask, not understanding.

"Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue?"

"Oh, um . . . my dress is sort of new," I say, fingering the shimmery gold fabric of the dress Carter bought for my birthday dinner. "My ring is blue. I'm kind of a . . . non-conventional bride," I explain, shrugging.

"If you would," she begins, rifling through her purse, removing a handkerchief. "Take this. It can be your borrowed
and
your something old."

I stroke the smooth fabric. It's soft and thin, beige in the muted light. And suddenly I miss my own mother. Not
missing her
, really—just missing what we could have shared were things different between us. I don't miss the irresponsibility. The impulsiveness. Taking care of her.

It's fitting that I would elope. Saves me the invitation.

"It's perfect," I tell her. "Thank you."

At that moment Carter appears, crossing the room, following an older gentleman.

Mrs. Bryan leans closer. "He's very handsome," she whispers.

A tiny smile as I take him in—crisp, white shirt. Black suit. "Yeah. He is."

"Are you ready?" she asks.

I hold my breath, gripping the handkerchief tight in my fist, and nod.

"It appears we are missing our additional witness," she announces, searching the room. "You go on," she tells me. "I'll only be a moment."

The woman is kindness and comfort personified, and this is what gives me the strength to travel the length of the center aisle, alone. My purse slides off my shoulder, abandoned on an empty pew, as I join Carter at the altar. The candle flames sputter, silent, my dress twinkling in their glow. Everything about this night is quiet, reverent, a certain kind of
perfect
.

When Mrs. Bryan returns—sister in tow—she slips between the first two rows, sits quietly, ready to become one of the only witnesses to this evening: a stranger forever connected to us by a single request—an act of charity.

"We're ready, then?" Pastor Bryan asks, glancing back and forth between us. The older gentleman wears a dark shirt, white collar at the neck, Bible tucked in his arm.

I exhale a shaky breath and swallow hard, dragging my slick palms across my lap.

"Yes," Carter says.

Pastor Bryan adjusts his glasses and licks his thumb, the pages of his Bible rustling, crinkling as they turn. He clears his throat, begins:

"We are gathered here this evening not to mark the start of a relationship, but to recognize a relationship that already exists. For this union has already occurred in the giving and receiving of the love that this young man and woman share. Carter and Genesis, tonight you are both called to a new existence, as the whole universe has come to you in the form of this person who has a unique love for you and is loved by you. In this love, let the giving love of God in Christ Jesus be your example and your strength."

Outside the storm thickens, rain hammering, pounding the roof. My head tips toward the vaulted ceiling at the back of the church, as if this is some kind of omen. A warning. Carter's eyes settle on me, burning, but I can't bring myself to look at him.

What if this is a huge mistake?

What if it changes everything?

"Carter, please take Genesis's hands and repeat after me," the minister says.

I place my hands in his. They're warmer. Stronger. Confident. His fingers gently squeeze mine, and this single, commanding gesture fills me with resolve, quelling the doubts in an instant.

He knows what he's doing. Of course he does.

"I, Carter Fleming," he repeats, "promise to encourage and inspire you, to laugh with you, and comfort you in times of sorrow and struggle."

The words ring familiar. Sorrow. Struggle. My eyes lift at them, and our gazes lock.

Carter.

"I promise to love you in good times and bad," he goes on. "I promise to cherish you and hold you in the highest regard. You are my best friend, and I will always love you. With all of my life, and all of my heart."

There it is again:
best friend. Best Friend. The best friend I will ever have.

"Genesis?"

I repeat after the minister: "I, Genesis Green, promise to be the shoulder you lean on, the rock on which you rest, and will seek to strengthen you, comfort you, and encourage you. I know that our miracle lies in the path we have chosen together." The words catch in my throat, breaking.

Why the butterflies? It's pretend.

"You are my best friend, and I promise to be true to you as long as we both shall live," I finish.

Carter's mouth twitches, a soft smile brightening his features, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It's unable to mask the sadness behind them.  

We exchange rings, symbols of our faithfulness and love.

"Carter and Genesis, each of you is unique, distinctive, and wondrously human. You have chosen to journey together in the remaining moment of time that is yours. From this day forward, you are one. You may seal this promise with a kiss."

My heart stutters.

Kiss? I haven't kissed Carter since . . .

But before I can think another thought, Carter tilts my face to his, fingers lifting my chin, and brushes the sweetest, simplest kiss across my lips. A humming energy passes between us, a thousand forgotten memories rising to the surface, dredged. My throat constricts as he pulls away, heart pumping faster.

"Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder." The minister's voice is saturated with delighted smile, as if this simple command, this admonition, is all it takes to keep us safe. Protected. Guarded.

Carter's eyes burn into mine, gray and serious, those final words hovering between us, between that kiss, suspended. And I know what he's thinking. I can read his thoughts as if they're my own. Because they
are
my own.

It's not
man
we're worried about.

E
IGHT

I roll over, stretching, bang my wrist against the coffee table. A spike of pain shoots through my arm, pricks an old injury like knives. "Shit."

"I told you to take the couch." Carter's voice carries from the kitchen.

I wrestle my way to sitting, wiping sleep from my eyes, blinking back light streaming through windows.

"
Here.
" He passes me a cup of coffee. The thick, silver band on his ring finger glints, pulling a trigger, memories springing to focus. The church. The candles.

"I guess we really did it," I mumble, stifling a yawn.

Carter removes the phone from his back pocket, shifting the screen toward me. The new background is the two of us together, smiling, flaunting our rings. My cheeks are flushed. Eyes bright. We look so . . .
happy
to be together. So
real
. And I remember: Pastor Bryan snapped the shot at Carter's request, right after we kissed.

We kissed.

But it wasn't like that,
I remind myself.
Not at all. Carter knows it's not like that between us.

I chew on the tip of my thumbnail, conviction surging through my veins, the word
mistake
pulsing behind my eyes.  

"I sent it to my mom a minute and a half ago," Carter says, pulling it back, studying the photo. "I'm giving her another thirty seconds before this phone rings."

I blow on my coffee, cooling it as I shove thoughts of weddings and kisses out of my head. "Is that good or bad?" I ask, not entirely certain I want to know the answer.

He hesitates, sighs, as if he doesn't want to know the answer, either. "That remains to be seen. Either way, it's done."

It's done.

The way he says it is so final—so
committed
. But I know Kitty Fleming. She'll go
batshit
crazy when she hears the news. I know Mr. Fleming—fathers like him, anyway. And again, that word: mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Because the truth is: boys like Carter don't marry girls like me. And of all the problems Carter's had with his parents—those are just the beginning.